


Red Spider Lilies

by seiyuna



Series: There will be other lives [2]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Canon Divergence, College Student Kurapika, Explicit Sexual Content, Grad Student TA Kuroro, M/M, Mutual Pining, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-02-03 18:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12753582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seiyuna/pseuds/seiyuna
Summary: In another life, their paths cross once more.Kurapika is a normal college student who has no memories from his past life.On the other hand, Kuroro remembers absolutely everything.





	1. Chapter 1

 

There is fire.

Kuroro takes in a breath of air thick with ash and brimstone and weaves a path of destruction across the province. He spares no infants in their beds, no children in the arms of their mothers, and feels absolutely nothing.

He steps over the bodies of the elders who tried to stop them, the useless old men who gripped wooden staves in their hands as their only saving grace. Their heads lay on the ground at his feet, their blood splattered across the grass.

Before him, a woman stands in their way. He sees how her face loses all color, how her dress is seared by smoke, how she still wields blades in both hands, the wood sturdy but her hold unsteady. There is a chasm of grief within her, wide as the village is empty, deep as the love of a hundred mothers. He sees rage and desperation and—

Eyes.

Scarlet Eyes.

 

 

  

Kuroro wakes to a start before dawn, this time with the image of blood seeping from the woman’s eye sockets, streaking her cheeks, as he holds her eyes in his hands. There’s no imminent danger or threat, but this alone is enough to make him curl up on himself, sliding his palms over his eyes as if there’s an indefinable pain seared into his sockets.

Kuroro only wishes that it could be a dream, that it isn’t real. But it is a memory, well established—the bodies sprawled on the dusty ground with empty eyes. The sharp tang to the air that lingered in the back of his throat like the taste of his own blood. No sound of life, not even the songs of grassland birds—only the whisper of wind and flicker of flames. He may as well have slaughtered them all himself.

With a long exhale, Kuroro pushes his hair away from forehead as he rises to make coffee. There is a tremor beneath his hands, but it fades away when his hands close over the mug.

At least when he’s awake, he can distract himself.

His mind isn’t so forgiving.

 

 

  

“Man, you look horrible.”

Shalnark says this with a relentless smile that is too bright for this world. He takes a seat across from Kuroro at the coffee shop, and only the two of them are here this early in the morning.

“Thank you,” Kuroro deadpans. His third cup of coffee for the day is in his hands and his fingers burn from the cup, the cardboard too thin to protect his fingers from the heat. “I could barely sleep.”

“Procrastinating on your syllabus?” Shalnark stirs his own drink. “You perfectionists always wait until the last minute to do things.”

“I finished on time, but I had some awful dreams.”

Shalnark winks. “Did you dream of me?”

“Of course.” Kuroro takes a sip of his coffee. The coffee brewed from his own machine is comparable to the drink concocted by the elaborate machinery at this shop. It was simply that he couldn’t stay in his apartment by himself any longer and needed to escape. “You always give me the worst nightmares.”

Kuroro isn’t kidding, but it makes Shalnark laugh regardless. Sometimes he enjoys Shalnark’s presence if it means that he doesn’t have to think about the time when he found Shalnark’s desecrated body, displayed like a child on a swing set. It was his fault that Shalnark was left defenseless, his fault that—

“You’re going to scare your girls off if you go to class looking like that.”

Kuroro looks down at his hands, catching how the paper cup crumples from his grip. If he weren’t pale enough already, the color seems to have drained from his skin. “I don’t teach in order to impress my female students.”

Shalnark reaches over the table to press both of his hands on Kuroro’s cheeks. “It’s our last year here. They’re never going to see you again, so make the best of it.”

“I will,” Kuroro says, though it’s difficult when his face is being squeezed. “I never do things halfheartedly.”

That makes Shalnark smile. “Good. Now all we have to do is find you the love of your life before the year ends.”

 

 

 

The seminar that Kuroro teaches is one of the most sought-after courses at the university. Despite that it’s an art history course in a rather unpopular department, students, particularly female students, flock to it because of the following—

One: Kuroro is objectively attractive in a department that only has old professors.

Two: Kuroro is a published researcher responsible for significant developments in his field.

Kuroro likes to think that it’s because of the second reason that his course is so popular, but Shalnark affirms otherwise. Apparently since Kuroro’s only a graduate TA and not a professor, there’s a higher chance of being able to date him without repercussions—but Kuroro doesn’t plan on fostering an intimate relationship with either a current or former student.

The course is capped at twenty students, much to the dismay of those who are unable to register in time when the course registration period begins, but the small room has over thirty students present in the unlikely occasion that anyone drops the course. There’s a young man sitting in the front row—Leorio, if he remembers correctly—and as Kuroro checks attendance, he confirms that he is registered for the course. It is fairly difficult to ignore someone like him when several women are glaring at his back for taking a seat in the class.

Only one person is missing from the attendance sheet. Kuroro would have never noticed considering all of the people that are packed into the room, with some students sitting on the floor as a result of limited desks, and one person isn’t enough to delay his lecture any longer.

The syllabus and presentation haven't changed much from previous years, with the exception of assignments for the course. Kuroro should know them like the back of his hand, but perhaps it’s the lack of sleep or the heat in a crowded classroom without air conditioning, that he finds himself struggling to carry himself as well as he usually would.

 

 

 

Halfway through his presentation, the door swings open.

Kuroro catches sight of a figure across the room with bright blond hair, who chooses to seat himself in a space at the back. For one breathless, impossible moment, he thinks that his heart has ceased to beat. It seems to pause in his chest, before pounding faster than before.

He is so utterly and achingly familiar that Kuroro can't look away.

As Kuroro's gaze lingers for a moment too long, he clears his throat. “I’m sorry that I’m late.”

He has never been one to show emotion beyond what’s necessary, but his eyes burn and his chest aches. He wants to know why.

Why does it have be now?

“Not a problem,” Kuroro manages to say, and he sounds rougher than he would have liked. “Come see me after class so you can get caught up.”

 

 

 

Students are already lining up to speak with Kuroro after class, but he needs to have a private chat with his new student to get him acquaintanced with the material. There are those who are genuinely interested in the coursework and those who need to foster an amicable relationship in order to receive a letter of recommendation, and of course, those who wish to invite him out for a cup of coffee. With a promise to distribute his office hours schedule tonight, the other students begrudgingly leave the classroom.

It doesn't take long for Kuroro to review the syllabus with him, as well as the missed lecture material. But words linger between them and he’s not sure how to say them.

“Ah! I forgot to introduce myself.”

 _I know exactly who you are_ , Kuroro wants to say. The name is there on the tip of Kuroro’s tongue, like the taste of something truly loved. He's not prepared for this and turns his attention to the documents in his hands instead.

“My name is Kurapika.”

His tone is so cheerful that Kuroro can't help but drag his gaze up, the weight of their past heavy in his heart, to meet Kurapika’s eyes. Kuroro doesn’t see years of undeniable grief and anger and vengeance buried deep within him, devoted to a cause that will only destroy him in the end. He sees a bright hope and curiosity in those taupe eyes, but surely at the very core, Kurapika’s heart and soul are still the same.

He wants to pull Kurapika against his chest, wrap his arms around his shoulders, bury his face into blond hair, and try not to break down completely.

He doesn’t.

This time will be different. Kuroro is levelheaded, considers himself reasonable, and is willing to give up everything within him to keep their past from happening again. He can hold his tongue if this is the price of peace and a better future.

“It’s a pleasure, Kurapika.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five of my kurokura fics have titles named after relevant flowers. This is the first time that I'll explain the title — red spider lilies can be associated with reincarnation as well as lovers who are destined to never meet again.
> 
> I think that kurokura defies the odds, so of course their paths will cross in this lifetime. This was inspired by the first dream I had with kurokura a year ago, when I didn't even consider these two as a pairing. They both died and ended up meeting again in another life, and that imagery stuck with my for the past year.
> 
> My alma mater had graduate TAs teach courses without professors — I taught two courses as well — so I'm basing university life off of my own experiences.
> 
> This was supposed to be a oneshot but I think I'll continue it. Sorry for having several multichaptered fics that need to be updated. 
> 
> Please feel free to leave a comment! You can also reach out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/) if you have any ideas.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure you have the Show Creator's Style button on before reading this chapter!

 

The door opens with a familiar creak.

Kuroro adjusts his reading glasses and looks up, considering the tall figure standing in front of the entrance. There is an amused smile on Pakunoda’s face as she places her groceries down on the counter. “Would you like some tea?”

“Sorry,” Kuroro says with a smile. “I should have waited for you, but the lock on your door was rather easy to pick.”

“Old habits die hard.” Pakunoda laughs, shaking her head. Her hair is tied back in a loose, messy bun, nearly falling apart, and she weaves a hand through her hair to let it down. She dusts the traces of animal hair and fur off her white coat, from a day at the veterinary clinic.

“You really should have better security around here, in case someone does break in.” Kuroro rises from the chair to help her set the bread and pastries onto the kitchen table. His reference materials and paperwork nearly cover the entire surface, even spilling onto the other chairs.

“I think you’re the only one capable of doing so.” A sigh escapes from her lips, evoking a soft laugh from Kuroro. She moves a pile of highlighted reports and papers to clear the space, disrupting the arrangement he had created. “Remember when you spilled coffee all over your notes?”

How could he possibly forget? Especially when she brings it up every time they have dinner together. “It took me a week to redo the data.”

“Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen again.” Pakunoda fills up a kettle with measured motions and procures a box of tea from the cabinet. The kettle hums the moment she sets it on the stovetop, and she brings two cups over to the table. “What brings you here today? I doubt it’s because you miss my cooking.”

A contemplative silence sits between them as they wait for the water to boil. If there’s someone who possesses clearer memories than his own, it’s her.

“I met someone, again.”

She shuts the heat off as soon as the kettle whistles, bringing it to the table and pouring water into their cups. As the tea rises, the notes of spring mornings and fresh grass permeate the space between them. She takes a seat and tips her head at the empty chair across from her. “Who was it?”

Kuroro settles back in the chair, shifting the papers in front of him out of the way. The porcelain is warm against his skin as he cradles the cup in his hands and watches how the steam rises from the surface. He lifts the cup to his lips and takes a sip out of courtesy, finding that the taste is as earthy as the scent.

“The chain user—” Kuroro has never said his name aloud until their meeting today. He has mentioned him in passing, when he once told Pakunoda about the events that transpired following her death. “Kurapika—he’s in my class now.”

“You’re not going to lay your hands on a student, are you?” Pakunoda asks, sipping meditatively at her tea.

Kuroro blinks, taken aback. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

“You’ve always been one to act on your whims. At least wait until after the semester, if you so please.”

A shake of the head, followed by a mirthless curve of the lips. “I don’t plan on acting upon anything. Kurapika deserves better, this time around.”

Something in her expression softens as as she reaches up to cup his cheek. His friends do that too often, but the gesture is reassuring when her hands are smooth, lacking the calluses that once covered her skin. When her hands save lives, instead of taking them.

“I chose to be with Machi because I love her,” Pakunoda says, a challenge to the world as if she dares it to defy her, and she’s beautiful in her certainty. “My feelings have not changed in this life.”

“I know, Paku.” Kuroro takes her hand and folds his fingers around hers in reassurance. He lifts her hand from his cheek and rests it against the wooden surface. “I know.”

When Kuroro has been the only person who she will follow, she’s learned to lead in her own right. Her gaze is heavy with the weight of knowledge, because only someone who has experienced the trials of bonds that transcend lifetimes, can understand this much.

“I hope you will think about this carefully, rather than choosing some twisted form of redemption,” Pakunoda offers in thought. “You have the choice to create new memories instead of reliving old ones, always.”

Kuroro smiles, a secret smile, before pushing to his feet with the scrape of the chair. “It’s getting late.”

Pakunoda nods, her eyes soft. “You are welcome to stay the night.”

“Thank you,” Kuroro says, though he’s already organizing his books and papers, “but it’s fine. I wouldn’t want Machi to misunderstand.”

  

 

 

Before Kuroro can think twice about it, he slips underneath the heavy covers of his bed in the unlit room. He reaches for his phone to scroll through unread emails from his students. There is one name that makes Kuroro pause, and a long exhale is all he needs before opening the message.

 

From: kurapika@hunter.ac.jp

Subject: Office Hours

To: kurorolucifer@hunter.ac.jp

Hi Kuroro,

Thank you for taking the time out to speak with me today. I apologize again for being late to class—it won’t happen again. Would it be possible to schedule a time to meet tomorrow?

I wanted to discuss the first project and the topics I had in mind for it. Attached is a relevant article I came across today. I thought you might enjoy reading it as much as I did.

Looking forward to the next class.

Sincerely,

Kurapika

 

Kuroro is used to receiving all kinds of messages from students in order for them to stand out in class. The effort that Kurapika has made is unexpected, to say the least.

His fingertips are poised over the keys of his screen. He composes his message, black text against stark white, but he presses the backspace key over and over again until the words are wiped clean. He’s not sure how to address Kurapika in an appropriate manner, when he’s the type of person to only give one-word replies to his students.

The response, a three line message, takes far too long to compose.  

From: kurorolucifer@hunter.ac.jp

Subject: Re: Office Hours

To: kurapika@hunter.ac.jp

Kurapika,

Thanks for sharing. Feel free to come by my office anytime.

See you tomorrow.

It is the last thing that Kuroro sends before falling asleep.

  

 

 

Kuroro arrives a moment too late.

In an ensemble of black, he enters the suite with two of his comrades at his heels. The scent of destruction is thick in the air, tempered only by the spilled wine on the marble floor. His steps falter when he comes upon the lifeless bodies scattered throughout the room. Kurapika has dropped to his knees, his face still and impassive, betrayed only by the clenched fists in his lap.

Kuroro kneels in front of him and presses his hands on his shoulders. “Kurapika?”

There is a long moment of silence, and then red fills Kuroro’s vision. Kurapika’s breath catches like a sob in his throat when their gazes meet. “I killed Tserriednich.”

Kuroro’s hands tense against his shoulders. His gaze flicks to Tserriednich’s body, with a face that tells no story of pain, even if his neck is marred by fresh marks.

“I killed him.” His voice comes out steady and determined, as if he had to do things over, he would make the same choice again. “I killed his men, all of them, and I’m not even _sorry_.”

Kuroro breathes out, careful and steady. “Are you alright?”

Rather than answering, he buries his face in Kuroro’s chest. There is a soft sound in his throat, but there are no tears on his cheeks. He makes another attempt to reply, but it breaks into a sob, shaking through him as he presses closer to Kuroro, his fingers curling tightly into Kuroro’s shirt.

“Are you hurt?” Kuroro tries again, holding him close. He presses his hand to the curve of his back, stroking him gently.

Kurapika shakes his head, his face hidden away in Kuroro’s shirt. “Just tired. Lightheaded. There was something in the wine.”

The thought that Tserriednich would even _try_ to lay his hands on Kurapika chills the blood in his veins.

Kuroro holds him tighter. “I should have gotten here sooner, but I’m glad you’re safe.”

“I think you would have been useless either way,” Kurapika murmurs, “but our plans will need to change now.”

Kuroro can’t help but smile. Erasing the evidence comes to Shizuku with ease, while Machi turns her attention to organizing Tserriednich’s valuables. The Scarlet Eyes, along with the rest of the artifacts, are secured within the Fun Fun Cloth.

“Let’s get out of here,” Kuroro suggests.

When Kurapika’s knees buckle under his own weight, Kuroro slides his hands behind Kurapika’s shoulders and knees, lifting him up as carefully as he is able to. His hand curls into Kuroro’s shirt again, and Kuroro looks down. His cheeks are flushed, not from embarrassment, but surely from whichever substance that was slipped into the wine.

Kuroro takes him back to his room, nonetheless.

 

 

 

Kuroro rises from the depths of a deep sleep, reluctantly opening his eyes to a dark room. He lies where he is, staring up into the ceiling. There is no use returning to sleep when his body is humming with a sort of tension, caught up in images that he doesn’t understand why he needs to remember now.

Throwing off the comforter, he takes his time in getting dressed. He’s not certain where he’s going beyond _outside_. The campus will be quiet during these hours, with the exception of employees or students who wish to cram in some studying at the library.

Perhaps it is a coincidence that he catches sight of Kurapika across from the campus green.

He’s drawn to the cadence of Kurapika’s steps, how he seems to be rushing to get somewhere. He must have one of those early morning classes that no one ever seems to wake up for. The wind tousles his blond hair and lifts the collar of his jacket ever so slightly.

Something pulls taut behind Kuroro’s chest. The Kurapika now is worlds away from the person he once knew, with a steadfast devotion to his oath and a depth of pain that he could never fully understand—

Kurapika stops in his tracks, and Kuroro stares. For a moment, he thinks that Kurapika will turn in his direction, but he approaches his friend instead. Leorio’s hands are occupied with various breakfast foods, and he hands Kurapika what seems to be a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Their interaction implies a great deal of familiarity, and Kuroro finds it fitting that he and Leorio have followed each other into this life as well.

With a soft smile, Kuroro chooses to turn away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paku is the mom friend and no one can tell me otherwise. I found it fitting that since her Nen abilities revolved around memories, she would be in the same situation as Kuroro. But she and Machi managed to work out. If I successfully finish this fic, then I may write a side story for those two.
> 
> Kuroro's memories might unfold in a non-linear manner, but please trust me to make them cohesive. Since we've seen Kuroro and Kurapika in the Yorknew arc hundreds of times, I wanted to focus on the Black Whale arc and the aftermath. This is where it diverges from canon—they foster an unlikely alliance on the Black Whale, and that turns to something more.
> 
> I'll change the rating of this fic to Explicit if you want to read about the more frisky details of what happens then lmao.
> 
> And well, since they're here in another life, that means they died somehow in their past life. Thanks for reading this so far!
> 
> Please leave a comment. You can also reach out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/) if you want to talk about kurokura.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Kuroro’s office is tucked away on the uppermost floor of the art history building, a space where the scent of freshly brewed coffee permeates the air and only the soft rustle of paper can be heard. Once, Shalnark placed a tarantula on his desk without his knowledge, effectively shattering the quiet and calm atmosphere he always made an effort to preserve. Some students thoroughly freaked, but there had been no rumors about any eccentric pets, no considerable impact to his reputation, since Shalnark apologized in a department-wide email.

Kuroro arrives to his office two hours earlier to ensure that his space is free of clutter. His desk has been cleared, save for his laptop and a few accessories. A bobblehead and a small plush of Sanrio characters—endearing gifts from Machi from last year—are displayed at the edge of the desk, right where his coffee mug is. All textbooks and novels line his bookshelf neatly, arranged by their subject matter, stacked against each other as if his office were a library.

He doesn’t know when Kurapika will come by, after all.

With a mug of steaming coffee cradled in one hand, Kuroro browses through his class roster. Even from this distance, all twenty names blur dangerously on his laptop screen, shifting before his eyes. He slides his reading glasses back on—the pair of black-framed ones that sit low on his nose bridge. His students tend to wonder if they're non-prescription glasses worn for aesthetic purposes, but that could not be farther from the truth.

Just as he opens up Kurapika’s student profile, two knocks resound at the door.

Kuroro fumbles, nearly spilling coffee over his laptop. It’s not as if he’s been caught stalking one of his students on social media, like they way they do when it comes to him—having the audacity to do so even during his own class—so he wonders why his body has gone tight with tension.

“Come in.”

As the door eases open, Kurapika peers into his office. His gaze meets Kuroro’s first, then falls upon the clock on the adjacent wall. He has arrived exactly on the hour, when Kuroro usually holds office hours. “Is this a good time for you?”

“Please come in,” Kuroro answers, setting down his mug on the desk. “Do you want coffee?”

Kurapika shakes his head. “I just had breakfast. Thank you, though.”

He slides into the chair in front of Kuroro’s desk, dropping his backpack on the floor. He glances up at Kuroro, smiling gently but seemingly anxious in his seat, and Kuroro can feel an echo in the quickening pace of his own heart.

“So, Kurapika,” Kuroro says, returning a warm smile. The photo on the student profile pulled up on his laptop screen mirrors the person sitting in front of him. He may already know the answers—sometimes he feels as if he knows everything—but he asks anyway. “Why don’t you start by telling me about yourself and why you’re taking the class?”

“Yes, I’m currently a third-year student. I’m from this small province called Lukso, so I’m not too sure if you’ve heard of it,” Kurapika says, making a gesture with his fingers to emphasize the scale of his homeland.

Kuroro’s smile nearly falters.

“I’m interested in art law and cultural property recovery, and plan on pursuing a career in these fields. Your seminar’s one of the few classes that discusses criminology in the art history department, so I’m most interested in exploring the motivations behind art theft and the repatriation of cultural objects to their origins.”

Kurapika could be dedicating himself to anything, everything, when things are so different—but even now, parallels still remain. Kuroro can’t help but internalize the last part as an accusation.

“You’re very well-respected too. Not only is your research impressive, but I’ve also read that your work helped authorities recover artwork that was missing for decades?” Kurapika’s expression brightens, as if he has been waiting to tell Kuroro this, looking at Kuroro as if he _means_ something to him. “Your impact in the field is just—very inspiring to me, so I’m looking forward to learning from you.”

“Thank you.” Kuroro’s response is too terse for what Kurapika would have expected. “I’m happy that you’re looking forward to the semester.”

“Yes,” Kurapika murmurs, averting his gaze to the bobblehead on his desk, watching it move from side to side with the dapple of sunlight from the windows. It’s difficult to ignore how a blush stains his cheeks, spreading all the way to his ears.

Somehow, his sincerity hurts him.

“You wanted to discuss your project?”

Kurapika clears his throat, not looking at him quite yet. After retrieving a folder from his backpack, he sets down a stack of stapled packets on his desk.

“For the first project, I’m thinking of exploring the controversies revolving around the return of Kuruta cultural items—human remains, records, sacred artifacts—to descendants of the clan. Why museums sometimes fail to comply, when these objects were unlawfully procured from their lands. There are ethical issues with the collection and display of these objects, even if researchers are interested in learning more about the clan.”

“The Kuruta clan,” Kuroro repeats.

At the faint recognition in his tone, Kurapika sits up straighter. “Are you familiar with them?”

_I murdered them all except for one._

“I know of them,” Kuroro says, because what he knows is a memory of another life. He wants to say more, wants to be selfish, but he can’t anymore. He’s lived his life wanting impossible things, and he has one right here in front of him. He shouldn’t be allowed to have more than this. “Your topic for this project is a personal one, right?”

Kurapika nods fiercely.

“I can see how meaningful this would be for you,” Kuroro says, his gaze softer. “Institutions have a responsibility to repatriate objects sacred to these cultures. But this brings up another issue—oftentimes, descendants of these clans are burdened with having to demonstrate proof of their cultural relationships, even when they may not be well-documented.” Kurapika nods again. “I would be interested in seeing what kind of sources you’ll draw upon for this project.”

He spends nearly two hours reviewing the materials that Kurapika brought with him, providing him with feedback and carefully listening to his ideas. Kurapika’s dedication is something that he never imagined seeing again, something that he thought was lost within the confines of his memories, but—

He needs to remember that his student is a stranger.

The Kurapika he knows did not smile like this.

The Kurapika he knows lost everything—except, if he dares to think it, him.

 

 

 

A sudden downpour of rain settles over campus, drumming against the glass windows of his office. From where he stands, Kuroro looks over the quadrangle, watching the trees waver beneath the onslaught.

“I forgot to bring my umbrella.” Kurapika joins him in front of the windows, and a deep sigh escapes him. “My apartment’s a bit far from here too.”

Kuroro gestures to the black umbrella leaning upright against the side of his desk. “You can borrow mine.”

A moment of consideration passes before his answer comes. “You only have one. It wouldn’t be right if you’d have to walk in the rain.” With a thoughtful frown, Kurapika turns his attention to the phone in his hands. “The weather app says that it’s going to look like this all day.”

Kuroro takes care not to favor one student over another. His schedule is free of any meetings this afternoon, so stepping out of the office for a short while wouldn’t hurt his productivity. Before he realizes what he says, he’s already suggested, “I’ll walk you back to your apartment?”

Kurapika looks just as surprised as he is, with widened eyes and parted lips from a loss of words. Panic flares in Kuroro’s chest. He can feel the moment that he makes a mistake, when Kurapika visibly hesitates to answer.

“Only if you want me to,” Kuroro adds, pushing his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, if—” Kurapika’s voice falls into a murmur. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

 

 

 

The umbrella doesn’t help much.

Rainfall comes from all sides, throttling them both with wind and rainwater. Kuroro keeps his grip tight around the plastic handle, but even that is not enough when the umbrella flips inside out against the strength of merciless winds.

In theory, there should be something romantic about this. If this were a scene in one of the dramas that Machi tends to watch, Kuroro would be promenading across campus with Kurapika, sharing an umbrella beneath the gentle patter of rain. This, however, is not a romance drama.

After adjusting the umbrella again, Kuroro holds it above their heads, attempting to keep Kurapika dry as if he isn’t already completely drenched. Kurapika, still recovering from the assault of heavy rain, pushes his bangs away from his eyes, the weight of rainwater slicking his hair down. His hip is pressed against Kuroro’s own, when the umbrella isn’t expansive enough for them to walk comfortably together beneath it. The contact is dangerous for Kuroro’s heart.

“Do you want to wait at the library?” Kuroro asks, his words engulfed by the wind.

“What?”

Kuroro shakes his head, water falling from his bangs. His dress shirt is soaked to the point that he can see his bare skin from beneath the fabric, and his socks are uncomfortably wet from stepping into a puddle earlier. Kurapika could not possibly be better off than him.

“Nothing,” he says.

 _Nothing_ , a part of his mind repeats, when there are many things he should say to Kurapika, things that he would have said if Kurapika did not die and leave him with nothing. There are other things he wants, some things beyond spoken words, like knowing the warmth of Kurapika’s palm against his, the steady pulse within his wrist, the yearning that comes with letting go but having a place to return to.

They stop right before the crosswalk, waiting for the walk signal to appear. There’s no one else around on campus, and from what Kuroro can see in the periphery of his vision, Kurapika stares at him when Kuroro’s attention isn’t directed towards him.

Without looking at Kurapika, he says, “I asked if you wanted to wait at the library or a coffee shop.”

Kurapika startles. “Ah, my apartment’s about five minutes away. Am I troubling you?”

Kuroro turns to glance at him, a soft smile on his lips. “Not at all.”  

They cross the street over to the northern part of campus, away from department buildings and closer to a street full of independent shops and restaurants. Just as Kurapika mentioned, they arrive after a brisk walk. His apartment has the convenience of staying on campus while having the freedom of an off-campus lifestyle.

Kurapika slides his key card to enter the lobby, but holds the door open. “Do you want to come in?” At Kuroro’s silence, he corrects himself. “What I mean is, we have study rooms that you can use—”

“I’ll be fine,” Kuroro assures him, holding the umbrella firmly above himself. “Make sure that you don’t catch a cold.”

Inclining his head, Kurapika gives his thanks and bids him goodbye.

 

 

 

There isn’t anyone to greet Kuroro back at the apartment when he lives on his own, despite Shalnark’s insistence for him to move in with him and Uvogin. He doesn’t plan to change his mind anytime soon, valuing his time alone too much.

His neck is irritated from the dampness of his button-down shirt, and he does not delay in divesting himself of the shirt, letting it fall in a pile on the floor. His socks squelch within his shoes as he moves. Both shoes come off next, and he sets them aside in the hallway when he really should be throwing them out.

He steps into the shower before doing anything else, staying there a while and letting the temperature of the water scald his skin. A strange sort of emptiness rings in his chest where something should be, and he cannot think—can only focus on the white tiles of his shower walls, tracing the smallest of grooves and marks.

Beneath dark skies, when he first encountered Kurapika in Yorknew, rainwater had plastered to his skin, soaked through his clothes, too.

A familiar ache throbs at his temple. He pushes the thought away for another time.

For the rest of the day, he works from his bed and in the comfort of his pajamas. He throws himself into his work, lets his strict routine carry him away.

Sleep comes easier tonight, claiming him the moment he closes his eyes.

 

 

 

Kurapika does not look aroused; rather, he looks like he’s in pain.

Kuroro has him pressed against the wall, hitched up on the marble countertop of the bathroom, and he’s standing between Kurapika’s legs. Kurapika’s fever burns from aphrodisiac, and the coolness of Kuroro’s hand against his cheek does nothing to help. Even the stream of cold water from the shower could not douse the burning ache that has overtaken him.

Kuroro slides his hand beneath his chin, tilting his head upward. When Kurapika looks up through heavy lashes, dazed, it is as though he cannot see anything beyond the curve of Kuroro’s lips, the slant of Kuroro’s jawline. His irises have shifted into a vibrant scarlet shade, as bright as the flush staining his complexion.

At the sight, heat floods Kuroro’s body.

Kuroro’s thumb presses against the softness of his lips, parting them. The taste of wine lingers on Kuroro’s tongue, from their first kiss, though he’s unable to discern the exact substance Tserriednich placed into Kurapika’s drink.

What he does know, however, is that under his touch, Kurapika is honest.

Kurapika leans forward to meet his lips in another kiss, rougher this time, expecting more from Kuroro than what he gives, pushing until Kuroro gives him what he wants. The sound that Kurapika makes is something that he has never heard before, breathy and keening. A distinctive _want_ is heady on his tongue, within his insistent mouth.

Kuroro’s hand moves down his throat, splays his fingers over his bare chest, where his shirt is unbuttoned in its entirety. His heart beats erratically beneath Kuroro’s palm, demanding.

Kurapika breaks the kiss to catch his breath, and his next exhale trembles as it leaves his lungs. “Kuroro.” He murmurs his name as if he knows nothing else. “Please.”

“I would have liked to take you under different circumstances,” Kuroro answers, nipping at the skin as his neck, ensuring that the paleness of his skin is replaced by proprietary marks blooming beneath Kuroro’s mouth. A hand finds the back of Kuroro’s head, curling into his black hair, and pulls. Kuroro looks up. “Are you sure you want this?”

“ _Yes_ ,” comes his answer, full of certainty, and Kuroro can’t deny him.

Kurapika’s zipper comes down with a hissing sound, and Kuroro pulls them down along with his undergarments, discarding them on the tiled floor. Intimacy of this nature should only belong in a furtive daydream, perhaps on his bed instead of his bathroom, because he would have never expected Kurapika to be so willing to have him.

“Hurry up,” Kurapika groans.

Kuroro intends to do so. He slides a hand beneath Kurapika’s knee and lifts his leg higher. With a packet of lubricant, he slicks his fingers and prepares Kurapika slowly, pressing into his deepest parts, listening to the senseless, unbearable sounds that tear from his throat. Kurapika arches against him with the fullness of three fingers, and he seems unable to see straight, unable to form coherent words as Kuroro continues stretching him.

Then, his fingers are gone from Kurapika. Metal clinks as he undoes his belt buckle, and he does not make an effort to unclothe himself. Kuroro keeps his hands on Kurapika’s hips, encouraging him to wrap his legs around his waist, as he guides his length into him.

Kurapika gasps at the newfound stretch, his hands trembling as they press into Kuroro’s shoulders. Kuroro marks a pause to allow him to adjust, but his ankles dig into his back, and he takes him in one slow, impossibly deep motion.

His hold is firm on Kurapika’s hips as he starts moving with hard, fast thrusts, pushing into the same place again and again to hear Kurapika gasp and groan. It’s hot and tight inside him, and Kurapika shudders with the sensation of being filled by him.

“ _Kuroro_ ,” Kurapika says again, and it comes out more like a whine.

“I’m here,” Kuroro murmurs, pulling back to push inside again, harder this time, “inside you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Kurapika’s breath catches in quiet sobs every time he thrusts inside, rocks into him with reckless abandon.

Kuroro's eyes are falling shut, but he needs to keep them open; otherwise, he will not be able to see him—

Kurapika, who has made a lover out of a sworn enemy, a warmth out of cold detachment, a maelstrom out of an eternal calm, and a wrecked mess out of Kuroro’s soul.

He meets Kuroro’s eyes, but he’s far gone, melting against Kuroro as he presses into him over and over again. He isn’t able to last very long, and a particularly harsh thrust is all it takes for him to fall apart, shaking with an intensity never felt before, tightening around Kuroro as he comes. Kuroro’s name falls from his lips again, caught in the throes of pleasure.

Kuroro spreads Kurapika’s legs wider, pulling his hips at a higher angle. He lets Kuroro thrust into him through the aftermath of orgasm, and Kuroro holds out as long as he is able to because he does not want the feeling to end. But it has to.

His teeth find Kurapika’s neck, and he bites down as he comes deep inside, pulsing against his sensitive heat, receiving a sharp hiss in response. He doesn’t pull out yet, just revels in the feeling of being inside Kurapika.

Kurapika wants him to stay where he is too.

 

 

 

Kuroro wakes up with a tightness in his chest that reminds him too much of loss and longing. Everything is in its place in his bedroom—the sound of the minute hand incrementing from the clock on the wall, the stark outline of his bookshelf in the darkness, the shadows of the picture frames on his bedside desk—but something feels _wrong_.

His heart cannot calm down.

The memory returns too soon, bringing with it a sense of shame and arousal. His pants feel tight, but he bites down on his pillow, willing himself not to act upon his urges, because it feels too much like violating Kurapika’s privacy just by thinking of him like this.

 _He is not yours_ , Kuroro reminds himself.

When he closes his eyes, the Kurapika he sees is only a memory. He needs to acknowledge this, but it’s difficult when his student looks like him, speaks like him. It’s almost masochistic to avoid giving in, when his body is aching for something that he knows exactly what to give it, but he’s not going to betray Kurapika’s memory.

He’s not going to give in.

He’s better than this.

He’s better than this, but he wonders if it is even possible to be envious of himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no update. I was happy to see that some people were still interested in reading this work. Thanks so much for your patience!
> 
> I like how there's a tag called Sad Wanking on AO3. I'm not going to put Kuroro through that lmao.. In a future chapter, I would really like to see him run into Kurapika at a college party. 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think so far—I'd love to know. 
> 
> Please leave a comment! You can always reach out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/) if you want to talk.


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